Jake looked up. Another soldier, pointing a gun, was waving him away. As he stood, the other grabbed the camera, saying something in Russian. The first soldier poked the gun again until Jake raised his hands and turned around. On the terrace the Big Three were being hustled into the house, only Stalin still rooted to the spot, assessing, an anxious look like the one from the Chancellery steps. A sharp crack of rifle fire startled the air. A few birds bolted up out of the reeds. The men on the terrace froze, then hurried quickly into the building.
Jake looked toward the sound of the shot. A Russian officer, firing into the air to stop the riot. In the silence that followed, the guards stood still, watching the rest of the money blow toward the Neuer Garten, sheepish now, afraid of what would follow, their perfectly arranged afternoon turned squalid, an embarrassment. The officers ordered them into line and took back the notes. Jake’s Russian pointed again to the house. Lieutenant Tully, who was afraid of flying. Four Russians were picking him up, flinging the money belt onto his chest as if it were evidence. But of what? So much money.
“Can I have my camera back?” Jake said, but the Russian yelled at him and pushed him forward with the gun, back to the photographers. The lawn was swarming with aides now, directing everyone back to the cars like tour leaders. Apologies for the disruption, as if Tully were a drunk who’d spoiled the party. The Russian guards watched, sullen, their one piece of luck blown away.
“Sorry,” Jake said to Liz. “They took the camera.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t get shot. What were you doing down there?”
“It was the guy from the plane.”
“What guy?”
“Tully. The kid with the boots.”
“But how-?”
“Let’s go, let’s go.” A brusque MR “Fun’s over.”
They were herded behind the others to the car park. Before they reached the gravel, Jake turned, looking back toward the lake.
“What the hell was he doing in Potsdam?” he said to himself.
“Maybe he’s with the delegation.”
Jake shook his head.
“Does it matter? Maybe he fell in the lake.”
He turned to her. “He was shot.”
Liz looked at him, then nervously back to the cars. “Come on, Jake. Let’s get out of here.”
“But why Potsdam?” In the park, a few of the bills still bounced along the grass, like leaves waiting to be raked. “With all that money.”
“Did you get any?”
He uncrumpled the salvaged note in his hand.
“A hundred marks,” Liz said. “Lucky you. Ten whole dollars.”
But there’d been more. Thousands more. And a man with a bullet in his chest.
“Come on, the others have gone,” Liz said.
Back to the press camp to drink beer. Jake smiled to himself, his mind racing, no longer walking dazed through ruins. A crime. The way in. His Berlin story.
Word had already gotten around the press camp by the time Jake got back.
“Just the man I’m looking for,” Tommy Ottinger said, looming over the typewriter Jake was using to peck out some notes. “First thing that’s happened all week and there you are, right on the spot. How, by the way? ”
Jake smiled. “Just taking some pictures.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Dead soldier washed up in the lake.”
“Come on, I’ve got to go on tonight. You can take your own sweet time with Collier’s. Who was he?”
“How would I know?”
“Well, you might have checked his tags,” Tommy said, waiting.
“I wish I’d thought of that.”
Tommy stared at him.
“Really,” Jake said.
“Some reporter.”
“What does Ron say?”
“A John Doe. No tags.”
Jake looked at him for a second, thinking. “So why did you ask me?”
“ ‘Cause I don’t trust Ron. I trust you.”
“Look, Tommy, here’s what I know. A stiff washes up. Dead about a day, I’d say. He had some money on him, which got the Russians all excited. The Big Three left in a hurry. I’ll give you my notes. Use whatever you want. Stalin’s face-it’s a nice touch.” He stopped, meeting Tommy’s stare. “He had tags. I just didn’t look. So why would Ron-?”
Tommy smiled and took a chair. “Because that’s what Ron does. Covers ass. His own. The army’s. We don’t want to embarrass the army. Especially in front of the Russians.”
“Why would they be embarrassed?”
“They don’t know what they have yet. Except a soldier in Potsdam.”
“And that’s embarrassing?”
“It might be,” Tommy said, lighting a cigarette. “Potsdam’s the biggest black market center in Berlin.”
“I thought the Reichstag.”
“The Reichstag, Zoo Station. But Potsdam’s the biggest.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s in the Russian zone,” Tommy said simply, surprised at the question. “No MPs. The Russians don’t care. They are the black market. They’ll buy anything. The others-the MPs’ll make a sweep every once in a while, arrest a few Germans just to keep up appearances. Not that it matters. The Russians don’t even bother. Every day’s Saturday on Main Street in Potsdam.”
Jake smiled. “So he wasn’t attending the conference.”
“Not a chance.”
“And Ron doesn’t want his mother to read about her boy in the papers.”
“Not that way.” Tommy looked behind Jake. “Do you, Ron?”
